Sherlock: The Next Generation
by ThisEuphoricLife
Summary: Clara Holmes leads a life that's anything but ordinary. The closest thing she has to a friend is a sickeningly sweet excuse of a Watson, and the closest thing she has to an enemy can't seem to leave her alone. When her world gets turned upside down by the unlikeliest of sources, Clara realizes the game has changed: and the rules may not be as simple this time around.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The streets of London never really were quiet, but the way they were at two a.m. was the closest they would get to it. The moon was out, illuminating the corners the lamps missed. The occasional drunk and stray dog passed; sometimes even both together. Hardly were there actual sober people, much less people worth having a conversation with. Then again: who had conversations at two?

A girl walked down one of the backways, her heels clicking against the cobblestones. She wore a sleek black dress, and, since the night was predicted to be cold, had pulled over a light jacket. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun; a few curls hanging loose, framing her face. She would have been quite pretty had she been smiling, but her facial expression was far from that of joy.

She glanced boredly around the deserted parking lot, as if waiting for something to happen. The only thing that did, however, was the drunk man who had leaned against a post for support passing out. But she couldn't be worried by him. It was his own fault, after all.

She tucked a stray strand behind her ear and began walking back outside the alley. This particular girl wasn't like most others her age. She was stubborn; and she would stop at nothing to get what she desired.

Her phone twinkled, and she didn't even need to check it to know who the text was from. She ignored it and continued walking, turning at the main road to go down another abandoned alley. Her icy blue eyes darted around the brick walls, squinting at the grafitti. Perhaps what she was looking for was there-

The phone chimed again, and, aggravated that it had snapped her out of her thought, she pulled it out. As she walked back out the second alleyway, she casually slipped it in the gutters. Surely it wouldn't bother anybody, chiming itself to glory in there.

The third alleyway was even more deserted than the first two, making her even more eager to look in it. She walked to the very center of the wall, and looked up, and then around. The street lamp's shadows barely reached the corner of the wall, and where she stood was only partially illuminated. It had a nice figure, though the shadows did seem to be more drawn-out than they were. She grinned to herself, for even in the dark, she knew exactly where she was.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her mouth. She sighed internally, and even though the hand tightened its grip, did nothing but smile. A little. Sensing this, her attacker let her go, and opted instead to hold onto her wrists, behind her back.

"They say the third time's a charm." Her voice remained calm and level as her smile widened. "I had hoped you would be smarter than that, but then again, you really aren't, are you?"

Her attacker slowly turned her around, still keeping a grip on her wrists. He came into view, and she could see that he was smiling, too. But it wasn't the same smile she had; rather, the kind of smile a predator had when he caught sight of his prey.

"Clara Holmes." His voice drawled out her name, thick with a northern English accent. She dropped her shoulders, watching him unblinkingly. "It's been a while."

"Too long." She replied, squinting at the boy in front of her. He was pale; strikingly so, and had a shock of mousy brown hair. To most, he looked like a normal English schoolboy, but Clara knew better. He was dangerous. Or at least, he liked to think he was. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten to come," she continued, her eyes cooly darting around their surroundings.

"Ah, you shouldn't have doubted me." He chuckled, and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. One hand still holding her wrists, he dialed a number, before pressing it to his ears.

"Daddy's going to be proud, isn't he?" Clara whispered menacingly, a smirk plastered onto her face. Something in the boy flickered. Anger. And then he regained his neutral expression, simply raising an eyebrow to her.

The phone on the other end rung, twice, before it carried over to voicemail. The boy sighed, and hung up, putting it back into his pocket. "It would seem we've got a long walk." He said, gritting his teeth.

"Still doesn't care about you, does he?" He didn't even need to look at her to know she was smug. The way she tried not to snicker as she said it was evidence enough.

"My father's a busy man." His own voice sounded strained. "After all, there is only one Jim Moriarty in this world."

"One would think." Clara took a sharp breath before adding, "Grow up, Isaac. You seriously can't be that naive. It's bad for the family name." She then allowed him to turn her around and march her out the alleyway.

"You think you know me," he leered, as they walked down the empty street. A normal person would have assumed, by the way he was holding her, that they were a young couple coming home from the movies or a very late night stroll. What they didn't see was the gun that was strapped onto her belt, nor the snipers he had arranged to follow them on their route, just in case. Then again, they were anything but normal.

"Well, you finding me was very convenient, I must say." She tossed her head.

"What do you mean?" They continued walking as they talked.

"I need to talk to your father." Isaac raised an eyebrow at that, bringing them to an abrupt halt.

"Why?" He asked, squinting.

"If you want to know so badly, figure it out." She replied, indignation sparkling in her eyes. She said it like it was a challenge.

He didn't say anything more, and they continued on. They were at an intersection when a car passed by. Of course, an occasional car did pass by, even this early in the morning: but something about this car was different.

It stopped before the two of them, making them both tense. Isaac let go of Clara, who reached down for her handgun. The window of the passenger seat rolled down, and a painstakingly familiar face stared blankly at the both of them.

Clara groaned. "Uncle Mycroft!"

"Don't sound so disappointed," Mycroft Holmes chided her. "It wasn't easy getting out of bed at this hour, you know." She simply glared as the driver got out and opened the passenger seat for her. "Come in."

Isaac blinked, confused. He had specifically ordered his snipers to shoot whoever had tried to interfere with his mission. Why they hadn't shot the man in the car was beyond him. That is, until the man himself spoke up.

"Oh, and Isaac, dear- that is your name, is it not?- the police will find those hitmen of yours in the morning. Quite the headlines that'll make." He turned to Clara, who hadn't moved from the spot. Her hands were crossed, and she was still glaring at him. "Why are you still standing there? I asked you to get in, didn't I?"

She thought about the two options she had. In the end, going with her uncle seemed like the better one: simply being that he was a powerful man, and it wouldn't look good for her or her motives to go against him. Clara slid into the car, and the driver gently brought the door to a close.

"This isn't over," She said, channeling her glare at Isaac. The boy, to his credit, grinned.

"Indeed, it isn't." The window rolled up, and the car began driving away.

Clara sat in silence for a couple of minutes before sighing with frustration. "What was that for?!" Her uncle pulled out the earphones he had put into his ears and stared at her plainly.

"You're welcome," He said, before putting them back in and going back to his phone. Knowing him, he could have been listening to the radio, or reports of secret missions from the KGB. It was always hard to tell.

"For what? Ruining my one chance?" She leaned her head against the window, which was, as the night had been, slightly cold. Mycroft pulled out his earphones, looking more and more annoyed.

"If it's any consolation, it wasn't my idea to come after you. If it was up to me, I'd have left you alone with that sorry excuse of a boy."

"Then whose was it?" She asked, pulling away from the window. Mycroft Holmes was the type of man who took orders from nobody. Well, almost nobody. As long as Clara had been alive, there were two people whom she had seen have any sort of control over her uncle. She wondered which of the two could possibly have been the ones who had sabotaged her work.

"Mine." A third voice came from the far end of the car. It was male, and sounded unmistakingly tired. As it said, "Hello, Clara," she realized that she very well knew whom it belonged to. She also realized that if he was here, then there surely was something wrong.

That made three people who had power over her uncle. And Clara couldn't help but think that the newest addition was beginning to squander Mycroft Holmes's reputation.

* * *

 **A/N: I hoped you enjoyed the first chapter! I would love it if you could write me a quick little review, since this is my first Sherlock fanfiction, as well as my first Next Generation fanfiction. Thank you, and stay tuned for Chapter 2!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"William?" Clara raised an eyebrow. William Watson rarely managed to surprise her, though this time, he had succeeded with flying colors. He, too, ducked his head, and grinned at her. Clara fought off the impulse of punching his cheery face into the glass behind him.

"You're welcome, Clara," She wrinkled her nose at how pleased with himself he sounded. To how he actually thought that he had saved her. She resisted the urge to reply with something unsavory- after all, Uncle Mycroft was sitting right next to her. "Where're we going, anyway?" He asked, leaning back on his end of the seat.

Clara fumed silently in her seat. As was typical for him, William had come up with a half-baked plan. He'd thought of how they were going to find her, yet hadn't the slightest where they were going to go. And that was the important bit, because there weren't many places that would accept two geniuses and a smiling goldfish this late at night.

Luckily, Mycroft pulled off his earplugs and answered the question. "Why, we'll pay a visit to my dear brother, of course!" Both William and Clara opened their mouth to say something, and then closed it again. They knew that once Mycroft Holmes made up his mind on something, no matter how opposed it was, he'd do it.

Clara spent the rest of the car ride staring outside at the rather bleak night sky. The stars that were probably shining brightly on the countryside were smothered with the air pollution, making the color of the sky a dull blue-black. The only light, other than the waxing gibbous moon, was the row of street lamps that dotted their journey. With the lull of the moving car, Clara found herself drifting off.

She woke to a halted car and a long face she then realized was her father's. Behind him stood William, who was talking to his parents. Mycroft Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Quietly, she got out from the car, and with a nod of his hat, the driver drove off. Nobody said a word as Sherlock Holmes took out his keys and opened the door to his flat on Baker Street.

"It's, er, a little crowded, don't you think, Sherlock?" John asked, stepping forward. His voice was low, as he was being careful not to wake up the sleeping neighbors.

When Sherlock Holmes answered, he didn't bother to make his voice any softer. He didn't really have much consideration for his sleeping neighbors. "It'll do." He scoured the flat, before pointing towards Mrs. Hudson's empty one downstairs. "You and Mary and young William here can share Mrs. Hudson's flat."

"You own it?" William asked, scrunching his eyebrows in a look of genuine confusion. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, before Sherlock cleared his throat and announced he'd be upstairs if anybody needed him. John and Mary too departed, going off to put on their pajamas and go to sleep.

Once they were alone, Clara looked up at William and, in a whisper, answered his question: "When she died, Father couldn't stand the thought of anybody else sleeping in her flat. He always said it was because he didn't want an ordinary neighbor, but we all know better. It was-" Her eyes flashed before she curled her lips and finished, " _sentiment_."

All William could reply was, "Oh."

"Will!" Mary was calling for her son, from the bedroom. "We've got the air mattress down, sweetheart, if you'd like to join us." He paused, glancing at Clara.

"What are you waiting for?" She asked, snapping slightly. "Go!" Turning red, he turned around and headed into Mrs. Hudson's bedroom, where his parents were already lying down on the bed.

Clara sighed, and bounded up the stairs to look for her own father. She found him sitting in an empty bathtub. This wasn't uncommon for Sherlock: he often did rather bizarre things when he was on one of his cases. Clara had learned to leave it alone.

"Where did Uncle Mycroft go?" She asked him, folding her arms. He looked up at her for a second before standing up from the bathtub, which apparently hadn't been completely dry, because his pajamas had spots of wetness on them.

"He left." He replied, which meant that he had made him leave. Clara couldn't help but think it was a shame. When he wasn't being annoying, Uncle Mycroft was some of the best company she had.

"Well, I'm off to bed then." She called, walking up to her own bedroom. Swiftly changing into a nightgown, she shut the door, and went to lie down on her bed. As she closed her eyes, she realized that it was strange for her father to take on a new case and not say a word about it. Usually when he took something of interest, he would talk about it for days on end, to the point where it would get so unbearable Clara would have to stay at a hotel room. This time, however, the only evidence he was on something new was his time in the bathtub. It struck her as completely odd. Then again, he was Sherlock Holmes. He was nothing if not odd.

Clara was awakened by the sunshine, a bitter reminder that she had forgotten to draw the curtains the previous night. Her blunder had caused her not only a night's sleep, but also a well-rested day.

She brushed her teeth, changed into decent clothes, and tidied up, before heading downstairs to what she hoped was breakfast. And indeed it was: Mary was cooking something in the single skillet her father owned.

"Just in time." She grinned when she saw the girl walking down the stairs. William, who was sitting at the table reading a book, flashed her a grin. Clara couldn't help but wonder how he could be so cheerful when he had had even less sleep than she did.

"Where's my father?" She asked, slumping down on a chair herself.

"Sherlock's gone out for a morning walk." Mary replied, without missing a beat. "John went with him. He told me to tell you not to worry, and that he'd be back soon."

"Wasn't going to worry," She replied, stretching and then resorting to look out the window. It was apparent that this wasn't just any walk. Her father never purposely exercised. The only physical activity he got was when he was on a case. And he rarely went on one without his best friend, who happened to be missing as well.

"Does he take me for an idiot?" She muttered to herself, getting a quizzical look from the boy in front of him. She smirked to herself and mentally added, _No. There's the idiot._

"Breakfast's ready." Mary walked over to the table, sliding over a basket of potato hash, along with bacon and toast.

"Have you heard from Sophie yet?" William asked as he reached over for a slice of bacon. Sophie Watson was his older sister, who had recently gone away to college. She was quite intelligent: at least, in the bookish way.

"No, darling, I have not." Mary sighed as she dug into her breakfast. "But, you know, college can be a very busy time. I'm sure she's doing wonderfully." Clara could make out the worry in her voice, but decided against addressing it.

She finished her breakfast as fast as she could, and hurriedly put her dishes in the wink. "Going somewhere?" William asked as he walked over to check on his kettle of tea.

"None of your business," She replied, eyeing his movements as he took the kettle off its flame.

He shrugged, his next words casual: "I know."

Clara sighed. For some reason it bothered her that he didn't press further; she had expected him to plead and whine and beg her to tell him what she was up to. "But if your mother asks, I'm going for a run." She swept up her curls into the kind of ponytail most girls wore when they were running.

William raised an eyebrow. "Can I come along?" He asked, and Clara scoffed.

"Of course not." He simply smiled, poured out the tea, and, as he walked towards the table to his mother, who was checking her phone, said softly,

"Have fun, then." Clara gave him a single nod as she headed towards the door, slipping on a pair of tennis shoes.

It was colder outside than she had expected, and as she began to walk down the street, she began to shiver. She stopped completely at an intersection, wrapping her hands around her bare arms and wishing she had worn a full-sleeved shirt.

"Need a jacket?" A voice nearby asked, and her heartbeat accelerated when she realized who it was.

"Oh, Isaac, aren't you ever the gentleman?" She asked, her voice devoid of any compassion at all. He flashed her a devilish grin, taking off his own jacket and handing it to her. She put it on, maintaining her blank expression.

The don't-walk symbol changed into the walk one, and Clara began to cross the street. Isaac followed her, his step matching hers. "Did you really follow me all night?" Clara's tone was condescending, and Isaac's reply was surprisingly calm in contrast:

"No, actually, it was quite strange bumping into you here."

"So then what are you doing in this part of London?" She raised her eyebrows and glanced at him for a second. He looked decent, as though he had gotten sleep last night; he must have stayed at a hotel. Given its proximity to the signal, it was probably the inn several blocks down the road.

"I could ask the same of you." He replied, turning a corner with her.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring that question and asking another of her own. "Are you following me now?"

Again, Isaac shook his head. "Actually, I'm heading to visit somebody. We just happen to be going the same route, which does make one wonder…"

"Oh, stop with your games." Clara halted, looking up at him. He was a good five inches taller than her, which made it difficult for her to glower him down.

"I thought you liked playing games with me," was his teasing response, as he began to walk forward. Clara sighed, and joined him. He got the message, however, because he added: "Anyways, if you _must_ know, I'm going to visit _her_."

"Who?" She asked, though she was fairly sure she knew what his response was going to be. She was also fairly sure they were going to see the same person.

"Oh, you know." Isaac's eyes twinkled as they both halted in front of the same red brick building. "Your dear mother."

* * *

 **A/N: Ooh, who's Clara's mother going to be? :D**

 **Thank you for reading so far. If you could quickly write a review, I'd appreciate it. Chapter 3 should be up pretty soon!**


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